Hello?
by fidofia
Summary: I'm a soul of an ordinary man, trapped in this wreck of a body, eternally dreaming. No matter how much I scream out in this vaguely solid consciousness, no one comes to save me. I'm still here, and I will always be here. Oneshot (Heavily based on the song 'Hello' by Evanescence. I suggest you listen to it)


I gain consciousness slowly. Awareness is strangely tiring after being little, than a ghost in the back of a broken mind.

I hear the bell ring, signaling the end of another school day and watch emotionlessly, as carefree students go about their business. As far as I'm concerned, they're nothing but slight annoyances, only there to add onto my mountain of grief. Unsurprisingly, no one says a word to me. No one ever does.

A single raindrop emerges from a cloud and rolls down my arm, and very soon I can hear the patter of rain on the pavement beside me. I must be getting wet, but I can't feel my body. Just as I should be sad, or crying, showing some kind of emotion, but I can't feel anything.

My mother is dead. Just a week before, I had come home to her lying on the kitchen floor. I had checked, but she was not breathing, nor did she have a pulse. With my father a dangerous alcoholic, most probably drinking, she had died alone. And still, I can't bring myself to cry. I have run out of tears. According to my therapist, it's because I still don't understand the permanency of death. She says that, being a 12 year old, I don't understand the concept of death.

I'm almost back at my house when I hear him again; the voice in my head. His voice is always lined with high pitch static, but I can always understand, because the sound of his voice in heavenly clear. Sometimes I think of him as an angel, sent from heaven.

"_Hello_."

It's obviously my mind, delusional with grief, playing tricks on me, but at least he's someone I can talk to.

* * *

But I am not nearing my house, and it's not raining. The voice is not talking to me. And I realize, I am obviously just dreaming. I smile with some content at this. I am probably lying in bed right now with my wife, our daughter dreaming sweetly from the next room. Soon I will awaken to the sound of breathing beside me, so I enjoy this silly dream while it lasts.

* * *

I am in my room and my door is barricaded with furniture to keep out my father, both drunken and enraged. I hold a knife in my hands, the one place on my body that doesn't have bruises or scars from my father. I hold my wrist out. It is better off this way. Before I can begin to move the knife to my skin, I hear a familiar static.

"Leave me alone!" I yell to it. I've never actually talked to him, he just talks at me. I don't need this right now.

"_Jimmy_," He replies, always watching me, "_I can make it better. I can fix you."_

I slice a long line down my arm, in a twisted rebellion to the voice of my insanity, "Don't you see?! You can't fix this! I'm not broken!" I can hear my father kicking down the door. I need to get this over with quickly.

In the absence of the voice I make a slit in my right wrist, feeling the burn, enjoying the relief of the pain. I can smell the blood, before I can see it trickling down my arm.

"_I can help you. You can be free of this all. You can hide away. But you must say 'yes'."_

I feel dizzy, but I still laugh at the notion. "Fine, yes! I'd like to see you try!" I don't consider that anything might happen, not even for one second. But suddenly I feel content, as a bright light fills the room.

I am still in my body, still in my room, although I am not in control of myself. I am nothing but a line of thought. I start slipping into unconsciousness quickly, but not fast enough to miss the owner of the voice healing my body, taking away all of the scars, and replacing them with unblemished skin, nor was it so swift that I missed the death of my abusive father with two of my fingers pressed to his forehead. This voice was not so much in my body, as I was in his mind. I could feel his thoughts. I knew who this voice was.

"_Hello, Castiel_," Were the last thoughts that slipped through my mind and the weight of the wings protruding from my back, was the last thing I felt.

* * *

I awaken, however a few years later with no memory of this angelic being, or the voice, in a dingy hotel room. Although, I was never religious before, I start praying and going to the church. Maybe my subconscious thought that it would bring me closer to him. I don't know, or remember, for after that was when I met Amelia, the woman I would marry. Soon after, we would have our child Clare. We were an ordinary Christian family, until I was contacted by Castiel. He took my body and used it, until he was thrown from my body and he somehow ended up in Clare and then he ended up permanently back in me and eventually became a human and-

_This isn't a dream. _The realization strikes me like a bullet. My wife is not lying beside me; my child is not sleeping soundly. I am Castiel's vessel. Everything is true. But I'm fully conscious. It doesn't make sense. Usually I can feel his presence, but it is dark and lonely in this shared mind, and Castiel is not here. A thought passes through my mind. Castiel is dead. But even so, I should be able to move my body.

I work at opening one eye, with enormous difficulty. When my eyelid finally budges I don't know how long I've been trying, maybe hours, maybe months. But I'm not seeing out of my eyes. It's like seeing a movie from the back seat in the cinema, and I have no control over the rest of the body. My heart sinks at what I see.

The Impala sits, parked in the undergrowth, rust covering the frame, and vines spreading up into the windows. They're dead. They're all dead. And I'm dead too.

I'm just a soul of an ordinary man, trapped in this wreck of a body, eternally dreaming. No matter how much I scream out in this vaguely solid consciousness, no one comes to save me. Is there even anyone else out there? I don't think it matters anymore, because I'm still here, and I always will be here.


End file.
